


A Matter of Taste

by StripySock



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac does not know where this need within him comes from but he is not ashamed to fulfill it and his friends do not begrudge him. </p><p>Finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marius

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=3733551#t3733551

When Marius comes into the room there is a distinct atmosphere, and he looks at Courfeyrac dubiously. The other man is sprawled upon his bed, a dissatisfied look on his handsome face as though he'd been contemplating deep truths that had somehow disappointed him. He was the only person Marius had ever met who could do that- make you aware of what he was feeling within a second of you walking in. "Are you well?" he asks, comes over to see his friend's face a little more clearly.   
  
  
Courefryac grasps his hand with iron fingers, looks at him with lazy half-closed eyes. "Can I beg a favour Marius?" he asks.  
  
  
"Certainly," Marius says courteously. It is rare that Courfeyrac asks for anything. Usually he gives without ceasing, of his time, his money, his heart. He mends and repairs easily and well, a subtle healing influence, there with a quiet touch and smile when he is needed, ready with a joke and a kind word for any who need. Sometimes Marius wonders what Courfeyrac does when he needs such a friend himself.  
  
  
Courfeyrac is still grasping his fingers and he gives a little tug until Marius sits beside him, perched awkwardly on the bed. "I rather need a kiss," he says, and Marius thinks he must be joking, until he spots that Courfeyrac's eyes are deadly serious, there is no laughing there, and he understands somewhere within himself that whatever this is, it's real. He hesitates still, he is not  _unaware_  of what men can do between themselves, but he has never imagined himself finding pleasure with anyone; there lurks in him a deep sense of conservatism, vague feelings of honour towards the woman who will be his wife someday (they have not met, but he knows in his heart that they will, and it has ruined him for the company of women of easy virtue.) Still, Courfeyrac is his friend, and Marius cannot refuse such a simple request.   
  
  
He bends and presses a brief kiss to the curve of Courfeyrac's mouth, lingers there for a second, hesitant and unsure. Beneath him, his friend sighs and Marius draws away, noticing that absurdly his fingers tremble a little. He is not unaffected, the kiss has set a slight warmth inside him, a leap and swoop of his stomach that he cannot explain with rational words. "Is that enough," he breathes, still close enough to see the green tints in Courfeyrac's eyes, and the smoothness of his skin.  
  
  
"If you ask that," Courfeyrac says with a smile, "then it has not been done right," and this time he winds strong fingers around Marius's jaw, draws him down deeper, strokes across his face with tender fingertips as he presses warm lips against Marius's, ceases all the questions that spring to mind, drowns them in feeling, and he cannot explain the sensation of the warmth that floods through him from head to toe, flushes him with unexpected desire, a desire he has only ever felt swelling in the night. Courfeyrac's tongue has parted his lips, and Marius sighs around him, and when they part he feels nothing so much as regret at their sudden sundering. Courfeyrac strokes a thumb across his mouth, lingers for a second and then moves on.   
  
  
There is no bolt of light, no sudden realisation, Marius loves him no more than he did a minute ago, with the warm affection of friends, but now there is desire between them and he does not regret the introduction, nor does it feel unnatural in these confines, within their room away from the gaze of the world, and he is not unwilling to explore it. Perhaps with another he would have felt shame at the swell in his trousers, the sharpening ache that runs through him, but here against Courfeyrac there can be no such distress, the calm that he carries spreads around him, soothes and softens.   
  
  
“Will you let me touch?” Courfeyrac asks, and still he is calm, still he does not move beneath Marius, and Marius knows in this second that Courfeyrac cannot and will not hurt him, not now in this, nor ever. He need fear no betrayal, nor that this will ever leave, and in the brightness of his eyes, and the lip caught by a tooth, pressing down softly on the firm flesh, he reads a need that he cannot understand but wishes to satiate, to give as Courfeyrac has always given. 

 

"Yes," Marius says, and feels sudden fear flood him despite his knowledge that there is no need for it. He is hovering above a chasm, daring himself to take the plunge, and it takes long seconds before he can move. Courfeyrac does not press, does not even blink, waits for Marius to go lax before he leans up once more, and catches his lip between gentle teeth, kisses him long and deep, slowly as though this is precious between them for what it is, and Marius loses himself in the sensaton for long moments.   
  
  
"You need only say no, ever," Courfeyrac says, and his eyes are terribly kind. Marius knows that he means it, and he is tired of waiting, tired of hesitating, not daring to plunge fully into life. When Courfeyrac presses his hand against the woollen material of his trousers, Marius does not startle, he sighs into the warmth and the smoothness of Courfeyrac's plush mouth, moves against the cautious hand. It is strangely heavy, reassuring even as it excites, and all fear has fled now, leaving only want.  
  
  
Courfeyrac sits up and shifts, presses Marius down onto the bed beside him, propped on one elbow and smiles at him, mirth and enjoyment evident on his face, and with skilled hands, he tugs down his trousers; Marius lifting his hips automatically, aware that his prick is flushed with blood and full already, and Courfeyrac slides a hand around it, and strokes with swift movements until it is as hard as it has ever been, then rests his face against Marius's shoulder and breathes in deep, leans up once more for a kiss. "May I?" he asks, and there is palpable need in his voice, and though Marius does not know what he asks for, he cannot but agree.   
  
  
He is surprised when Courfeyrac slides down, angles himself between his legs; and readies his prick with a gentle touch. There is hesitance in his touch now, and Marius does not understand the look in his eyes, as though he wants so much, and yet fears. It is the remembrance of that look in his own eyes, when he looked in the mirror and doubted what he needed that allows him to touch Courfeyrac's face gently, let him know that what he needs is not wrong whatever that may be- Courfeyrac does not have a selfish bone in his body, has never caused harm and Marius trusts that what he will take is needed. When Courfeyrac nods, and the doubt has fled from his eyes; he leans forward and licks his way from the base to the head of Marius's prick, smoothly and slow as though he savours every second. He is slow to take it in, inch after trembling inch until he can take no more, until his mouth stretches around Marius's flesh and tears spring to his eyes.   
  
  
Marius bites back the words of begging that seem so swiftly to rise to his lips, when he cannot even understand what he needs so badly. Courfeyrac heeds his unspoken words though, and rises to mouth gently at the head, to taste and touch with his fingers and his tongue, sucks on what he can fit in, and Marius has never felt anything like this before. His prick is being worshipped it seems with every tool that Courfeyrac can use, but though the wet and the warmth and above all the pressure are driving him close to a narrow edge of ecstacy, that is not what strikes him the most. The look in Courfeyrac's eyes is one of satisfaction, as though as much as Marius enjoys this; he does as well. He is ceaseless in his attentions, his tongue does not rest, and he hollows his cheeks as he goes back down. There is wetness in the corners of his eyes, but it is not tears, and Marius cannot resist twining his fingers in Courfeyrac's hair- it is something to ground them both- amazed at the responsiveness of his friend under his hands.  
  
  
Perhaps he cannot understand the pleasure that Courfeyrac takes in this, but he can honour its expression, understand that this is something that his friend  _needs,_  and that thought sends his hips flying upwards, until Courfeyrac presses him back down with firm hands tight on his hips, a gentle reminder that he is guiding this encounter, that he is choosing to do this, and Marius can only bite on his own lip, and beg for something he doesn't yet quite understand.

 

He does not last long, this is his first time and it is only shock perhaps that has held him back long enough to appreciate it at all. He cannot name nor quantify what he feels, only shudder and gasp and plead for more with his hands, his hips, the sounds he cannot stop. All through it, he watches; cannot close his eyes on the sight of Courfeyrac swallowing him down, wet and messy and better than anything he has ever felt before, strong talented tongue working at the head of his prick, eyes fixed on Marius, as though to evaluate and learn, or just to see what he has wrought, to watch him splinter apart under Courfeyrac's mouth. Then Courfeyrac closes his eyes finally, sucks once more hard and it is enough to end Marius, to send him helplessly over into sparking darkness as he comes like that. Courfeyrac is not caught off guard but he struggles to swallow Marius's spend, a little of it escapes and Marius groans into one fisted hand at the sight, perversity written large.  
  
  
Marius is shaking, and he cannot understand why, long slow regular shudders; down his spine, through his hips, even twitching his legs, and it is only the warmth of Courfeyrac that stills them at last, as they lie there, mostly clothed in too small a space. When finally he remembers that Courfeyrac must ache too, must desire release, he hesitantly slides his hand across his hip, fingers dipping down unsure, while his thoughts whirl with agitation. He does not know if he can do what Courfeyrac did to him, and this seems safer. His friend does not object, watches him with eyes that show so much less than when he was on his knees. Beneath the cloth Courfeyrac is hard and wet, and Marius realises with a still, strange excitement that he is like that from no touch, but simply from the act of pleasure he had performed, and still there is no complete picture but he understands just a very little more. It takes so little to bring him over the edge, swift slick strokes not unlike what Marius had done in the dark so silently for so long, since he realised what the flesh between his legs was for, and soon it is sticky between them, and Courfeyrac too trembles for long moments, mouth open in a sigh of satisfaction, breath strangled as though he dares not shout, which given the thinness of the walls is for the best.   
  
  
Courfeyrac presses a final kiss to Marius's mouth as though for a silent thank you, a thank you Marius echoes in turn with the gentleness of lip on lip, air shared as they share their food, their friends, their candles, their wine on long nights. It is not given to most to understand the secrets of another human soul, and Marius would not dare guess at the deepest thoughs of his friend, but he is content for these long seconds to share what Courfeyrac has offered him, and to give of himself as best he may.


	2. Jehan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac seeks out Jehan next for his help.

Courfeyrac remains a little longer, lies beside Marius as he falls into slumber, eyelashes dark on his cheek, his fingers wound tight into the sheets. When finally Marius is asleep, he moves carefully, draws the coverlet over his friend with a sigh, and stretches, feeling his back click a little. His lips are a little bruised, he can feel them under his fingers, tenderer than normal, but his jaw doesn't ache, and there still stirs within him a feeling of need that has not been stoppered, though now it burns less, more a banked fire in his belly than a blaze. Outside the sun is beginning to settle towards the horizon, the golden light of the afternoon spilling through the window, saturating everything in an amber glow, and he is restless still. With decision he completes his dress and scrawls a note to Marius as to where he will be (where he always is of course,) and leaves with a sigh.   
  
  
He does not know why he was made like this, and though he does not feel shame; there is a sense of resignation about it that he dislikes but cannot shift. Tonight though, he is indulging, and he remembers the soft touch of Marius with a gentle smile. It is rare that he feels that; men who indulge his tastes often forget that he is more than a vessel for their own need and he draws a careful line there- once is enough with men like that- he must cling to the shreds of himself that will walk away despite what he wants. For this reason he does not bring his proclivities to the shade of the Cafe Musain, he does not wish for these parts of his life to coincide, except as he wills. The rougher cafes and inns are where he plies his trade, faces that pass through and vanish from day to day, that will not linger and ask for more. There are some he can count on and perhaps Marius will be counted amongst these now he thinks. Now he will see one of the few others he knows will not judge nor condemn.  
  
  
Jehan sits, boots upon a chair, nose in a book, hand on a cup, in the corner of the cafe that Courfeyrac enters, and glances up with a smile that brightens when he sees Courfeyrac, and deep within him warmth curls instinctively at the sight, lets the flames leap up a little higher. He sits down next to Jehan, steals his book and drinks his wine, brushes a hand across lips that do not tingle now, are no longer swollen (he has never bruised easily) and looks at him with steady eyes. Jehan does not equivocate, does not play games, his fingers brush over the sensitive nape of Courfeyrac's neck, a delicate touch that calms him even as it heats. He does not ask for words, the words that come so easily to his own lips that tumble and fall, effortless poetry, in this he understands without words, it was settled between them long ago, and Courfeyrac feels that old ache of need. Still they laugh and joke, until Jehan stands and leads the way to somewhere quieter, a little more private (their hands do not brush even on the walk, even when it could be excused, they walk arm in arm sometimes, but not on nights like this.)   
  
  
In the quiet of Jehan's room, empty and silent, Courfeyrac hesitates suddenly, does not know how to ask if his need is written on his face, and Jehan seems to understand. "I can see it," he says seriously, gently, "but it is only a hunger as though for food or wine or song, you cannot see what the hunger is for," and he kisses him, as he always kisses him, as though this is pure and simple between them as though he merely gives what is asked for, a light press of his mouth to his cheek, to his forehead, to his lips before he slides a hand to himself and strokes with vigour. Courfeyrac feels himself harden at the sight; Jehan before him, eyes closed as he seeks to please. When he leans back against the wall and slides his hand between his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, Courfeyrac kneels to begin, does not delay or tease- this is a known path between them and he cannot wait. Jehan is thick and hard, solid in his mouth, and though his mouth had not been sore from Marius, it protests a little now.

 

Courfeyrac can feel the subtle stretch of his lips around Jehan's prick, and concentrates only on taking as much in as he can. Unlike with Marius, Jehan knows what he likes, what he can take, the hand that isn't muffling his sounds is in his hair, tugging lightly at the strands as with determination Courfeyrac works away at his self-appointed task. His jaw stretches wider at this angle, a firm ache that has him almost dizzy and he pushes further ignores the sickness he feels until Jehan draws him back with a gentle tug, a reminder not to go too fast. Merely the head of Jehan's prick is in Courfeyrac's mouth now, a comforting weight, and he folds his lips around, strokes with his tongue, sucks in a little and relishes the sigh that Jehan gives at the feeling. He cannot explain to himself, nor to others how this makes him feel. There is satisfaction, there is enjoyment- his own prick strains untouched, there is happiness at how it makes others feel, but they are merely parts of a whole. He closes his eyes, drives thoughts from his head, concentrates only on inching his mouth down again, swallowing Jehan deep, filling his throat until stars burst against his vision, and he must retreat for air.  
  
  
Jehan strokes a thumb across his mouth, lingers on his cheek for a second. "Ready?" he asks quietly. He knows what Courfeyrac wants after all, and although he sometimes hesitates he always allows him in the end. Courfeyrac nods as best as he can like this and Jehan moves smoothly forward a little, jerks his hips, lets his prick enter into Courfeyrac's mouth, press in deeper than he would usually go, Courfeyrac steadying himself on the wall, keeping his eyes closed as Jehan fills him like this, denies him air for long seconds.   
  
  
There is unwitting tenderness even in this where there should be no tenderness, and Courfeyrac wants it to last forever, Jehan's prick sliding in so deep that there is nothing he need do, bar take it as Jehan wishes to give it. He tries to help as best as he can, lets his lips catch at the head of his prick as Jehan withdraws only to return seconds later, sucks with quiet fervour, until Jehan loses control, jerks harder and rougher, takes as well as gives, and Courfeyrac can only hang on and feel himself pulse and throb in his own trousers, fears that his prick is so wet from this that it will show. It doesn't take much longer until Jehan finishes, comes down Courfeyrac's throat in exactly the way that he likes the most even as he struggles to swallow around Jehan's solid length, and when it is done he can only breathe in deep and raggedy as he tries to attain composure once more. His jaw is sore now indeed and he relishes the feel, the burn as he draws back. He doesn't open his eyes as he licks the remnants of Jehan's come from his softening prick, prefers to keep this all of a piece with the moments before. Feels Jehan stroke his cheek with gentle fingers once more, tilt his chin up as he pulls off.  
  
  
"Thank you," he says, out loud this time because between him and Marius it would have been odd, but between him and Jehan he likes to reaffirm it, and Jehan kisses him, heedless of where his mouth has been, of his battered lips and unexpected tears. Bends and kisses him properly as he does not do before hand.  
  
  
"You're welcome," he says then. "Would you like to stay?" Courfeyrac can hear what he does not say there. If he stays then they can do this again later, Courfeyrac can slake his need a second time where Jehan can keep him safe as he so often longs to do; and Courfeyrac breathes in deep in thankfulness and love at such a friend, but cannot impose on him twice in one night. He will have to seek satisfaction elsewhere.   
  
  
His lack of a reply is enough, and Jehan sighs, pulls him up so their hips are close together, and there is a look in his eyes that Courfeyrac cannot understand, a wistfulness he cannot name, as he grinds them together until Courfeyrac comes as well, hot and wet and sudden for the second time this day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback would be much appreciated.


	3. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta

After what Jehan has done to his throat, to his mouth, he aches and hesitates to look in any mirror. When finally he catches a glimpse of his face he eases in himself, for though his mouth is a little bruised, a little red and soft, and his eyes are over bright, the need has died and is concealed once again. He looks as though he has been drinking cheap wine; red and harsh, a vintage that needs time to flower, and self-consciously now he brushes a hand across his lips, feels the sting as Jehan slings an arm around his neck, presses in warm for a moment- for that is Jehan after all, Jehan who feels so deep and fights so much, and will never let go of a friend.  
  
  
He drinks water from a jug, feels it splash against his lips, cool his parched throat, soothe the sting that itches now on lips dried from too much use in too little time. There is a subtle ache in his jaw, but it is not bad and it merely remains present, a curious tell as to how he has spent his evening, and he raises a hand to soothe it, to rub the muscles through the cursory pain. Jehan walks beside him still in the cool evening air. The sky is clear above them, and there is a quality to the scene which Courfeyrac imagines Grantaire would enjoy. He has never seen a man who is so engaged to his bottle so willing to cease an intimate acquaintance with it to gaze at something he finds beautiful.   
  
  
When the Cafe Musain looms ahead again, he hesitates, urges Jehan on. Generally he would be there in the thick of it; urging revolution, a quiet flame burning within him, watching Enjolras and Combeferre spar, bringing a word of calm here and there, ducking women who know his face, and seek him out (he loves them well and they do not forget, he buries his face between their soft thighs, urges them to higher peaks, crumbles them in pleasure together,) but tonight with this on his mouth he does not wish to partake. Should his hoarsened throat speak words of power, his reddened lips exalt the cause while he kneels before a different power even if for so short a time? He shrinks from the juxtaposition of the two for reasons he cannot explain even to himself, though he does not call it shame. Tonight he should betake himself to the tavern he usually frequented, perhaps indulge himself once more, sate himself until the urge next hit- perhaps a week, a month, six months. He has had his glut of kindness, compassion, of friends offering their touch to fulfill his need.   
  
  
But Jehan will not let him go, will not let him leave yet, and perhaps he is right. The night is still young, the revellers are not sated with wine nor ready to depart. His eagerness gives the lie to what he will find, and perhaps time with friends, quiet if he needs be will fortify his departure into the night to round off his needs. Yet still his footsteps falter. Jehan pauses with him, snatches of merriment meeting their ears in the air. If they listen well they can hear Enjolras's clear voice exhorting, though they cannot hear his words, and Courfeyrac knows he should enter, stand by as he always does, put away needs and wants and things other than the cause as he always does. A touch to his arm though and he is strengthened obscurely, follows Jehan into the smokey darkness, plunges into where he truly belongs.   
  
  
Enjolras greets him with a smile and a grasp of the arm, pours him wine. Combeferre urges his opinion on a pamphlet he is writing, Joly and Bossuet fresh from the arms of sleep and Musichetta cheer the room with talk and jokes, and all around him there is activity that soothes his ruffled soul, and even Grantaire (who haunts this place like a faded ghost, sharp and angled, no softness in him) raises a glass and toasts his health. Jehan who is still by his side looks on and loudly proclaims in doggerel verse his opinion of them all, retires with a bow when he is met with jeers and hoots, compliments he is quick to point out that his real work is never afforded. Courfeyrac relaxes in the bustle and the din, leans his head against the wall and knows he is home.

 

He isn't sure exactly what time it is when Joly sits down beside him with a smile and a cup of wine, but it's long enough that he's come down a little from the warmth of his encounter with Jehan, long enough that he's had some wine of his own and is hovering right between sober and tipsy. Combeferre's pamphlet is fascinating as always, Enjolras as combative and the itch beneath his skin has almost gone away. Tonight, he thinks, he might leave that third trip. Save himself a walk, and a fishing expedition, looking at each man in turn to see who will not utter more thana token protest. At least so he thinks, until he realises that Joly's thigh is warm against his own, and his breath is sweet against his cheek. He moves away, aware that Joly has Musichetta who will tongue-lash anyone who leads her man astray, if she doesn't do anything worse, and that even more so he has Bossuet, a silent steadying presence, the third member of their trio, the one who balances them. There is no place for Courfeyrac there, not even for a night.   
  
  
But his awareness is sharpened now, his breath comes faster as Joly moves closer again, solid and warmth beside him as though he does not think there is anything odd in what he does, and Courfeyrac thinks once again on the oddity that it is these two who are so close. Jehan likes pretty girls and pretty boys, Marius prizes friends and ideas of future wives, and the rest of their group live loudly, boisterously, take what they wish from the demi-monde and do not involve themselves too deep. Yet Joly and Bossuet stand shoulder to shoulder against those who would raise scornful brows at two men sharing a woman, a small bastion of togetherness in the murky waters of want. That does not make a place for Courfeyrac though.  
  
  
On the third time their knees bump, he stands to go. Perhaps he will make his way to his customary tavern, lose himself in the possibility of oblivion, go to his knees for a final time. Or maybe he will make his way back home, and fall into a dreamless sleep for one more night, awake refreshed tomorrow, the day behind him like an odd dream that he has quashed with the light of day. Even, he hesitates, and looks over at Jehan, even there he knows now he could return and ask once more for what he needs, and Jehan would not even let him ask, would offer before he could, save him even a little blush. When he stands though, Joly's fingers wind round his wrist, and his eyes are dark and warm. "Come home with us," he breathes, dissembles it with "we have better wine and a bigger room, not to mention fewer braggarts."  
  
  
As though he has materialised from thin air, Bossuet is there on his other side- not so close to crowd, but close enough to be a presence. "Musichetta would like it," he says and Courfeyrac does not have the words to explain that on twenty nine days of a thirty day month he would be more than happy to oblige Musichetta's whims- she is beautiful and kind and she dances like a dream, but tonight it is not what he has planned, not what he wishes. He does not need to protest though for Joly's fingers have slipped down to twine with his own to squeeze, and he understands what is not being said. Understands from the heated glance that he has caught between Joly and Bossuet that this is not merely for the sake of Musichetta though he has no doubt she knows. Musichetta is not the sort of woman who would not be consulted.   
  
  
Unbidden, the images assault him though, Joly's kind hands against his face, Bossuet's weight at his back, Musichetta's gentle voice, and he can feel his mouth water instinctively at the thought, of two pricks instead of one, imagines that it will satisfy him for longer. They'll slide into his mouth one at a time, take their pleasure of him and he will offer it gladly. He stirs in his trousers- unbelievably for the third time this night at the thought, a twitch at the thought of what they offer. There is nothing but honesty in their faces, nothing but bravery in their words, and once again he allows himself to trust.

 

The room is indeed large as promised and Musichetta is not surprised to see them- comes forward with two cups of wine and dimpling, proposes to share. When she drinks, her red lips part a little, and when he touches the cup himself, he thinks he can taste her still. A beautiful woman indeed, and he stirs again with interest. Joly and Bossuet share their cup as they share all else, one laughing, one solemn at least for a little, but within them both is a peculiar intentness and an inner light. There are few people Courfeyrac has met, who march so perfectly in tune, who do not cross paths, two men so different and yet so similar. He cannot resist the thought of how they will be in bed, and does not try, not with wine on his lips and Musichetta's soft welcome salute on both his cheeks. Which will be bigger, he wonders, though that he cares for not at all. Which will touch tenderly, which will grasp firmly?  
  
  
He does not try and hide his thoughts, not here and now, and it is Musichetta who takes the cup from his fingers and winds her delicate arms around his neck. "Thank you for coming," she says, and there is no mockery, there is nothing here but acknowledgement of the debt they owe him, and her eyes are kind. He wonders how long they have planned this- the way Joly shifts tells him they have not done it before whatever this may be. Do they wish to wear the cuckold's crown in a way they cannot provide themselves? But Bossuet's hand rests on Joly's hip, his arm looped casually around his waist and that seems too simple, too easy.   
  
  
Musichetta is pressed against him still, she makes no movement for his lips, and though his heart fails him at asking what indeed she wishes, still he manages to answer. "You're welcome," he replies, "the wish of a beautiful woman isn't something to be taken lightly." His charm is automatic, nervous in execution but it seems to serve as it usually does.   
  
  
She smiles and sways closer. "Not merely my wish," she breathes into his ear, and the movement of her breath is enough to make him shiver, as does the press of her charming bosom against his shirt. She discards artifice as easily and simply as shedding a petticoat, she does not dissemble- she is direct, as he has always preferred his women, and perhaps if she were not taken, he would take her to his bed himself. If she would consent to go that were, and that is by no means assured. Joly and Bossuet are entwined now, and it makes him a little light headed in a way the wine had not. They kiss and embrace, two strong bodies against each other, and the blood rushes hot and shocking to his prick, he swells in an instant at the sight. It has been teased, insinuated, joked that Joly and Bossuet share not just bed, board, wine, food, clothing and all else, but each other too, but he has never considered it fully, never imagined the sight. It is not the inexperienced kiss Marius shared with him, nor too the gentle caresses of Jehan after they have lost themselves in each other. It is ready and practiced and he cannot tear his eyes away. Then Musichetta takes his mouth with her own, and he forgets his friends, loses himself in the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her breath and lips.  
  
  
When finally they break apart, Joly and Bossuet tug themselves away from each other too, and when they turn their faces are bare and raw and naked. Courfeyrac feels for one half a second, one beat of his heart as though he has intruded on something personal, seen something he should have not, but then that vanishes, lost in the pounding of his heart. Joly kisses him, lips still warm from Bossuet, and Musichetta whispers in his ear "what would you like?" and all he wants to do is fall to his knees and confess.   
  
  
"Both of them," he answers and his voice is cracked and broken, roughened from the night's activities, unsoothed by the wine he has drunk, and his face flushes, hot blood rushing to his cheeks, for saying it aloud confers substance to the thought. Nobody seems to think that he has spoken wrongly however, there is a hitched breath against his cheek, and Bossuet presses against his back.

 

There is little talking after that, only eager fingers pulling at his shirt, Musichetta unwinding his cravat with deft movements, and guiding him over to the bed. As though it has been practiced, she presses him gently down, and guides his hands to her laces, allows him to unveil her, strip her chemise from her and then lies back, her breasts heaving softly. He kisses her again, allows her to melt against him, and when his fingers slide between her thighs, she is already wet and soft and opening for him, and he looses himself in her for long minutes. He has been taught over long years to take care of a lady first, though perhaps the etiquette that had thus instructed him had not had this in mind. She shudders underneath him, Joly's mouth and clever hands on her breasts, Bossuet cradling her head in his lap, his fingers in Courfeyrac's hair, and he ducks a little to feel the tug.   
  
  
She is eager, soft little sighs that emerge from her mouth as though she cannot help it, until Bossuet tilts her head a little, exposes a long line of neck, and presses his lips against the curve, drags them up, skin against skin until he meets her mouth and swallows her voice. Then Joly shifts down, licks around Courfeyrac's fingers, pleasures with his tongue until she comes, quieter than he had expected. Courfeyrac kisses her then as Bossuet gently shifts, arranges her head on a pillow and strokes his prick. Now the moment has arrived, and he is paralysed for long seconds, unsure of where to go or what to do. Musichetta is warm at his side, reassuring and he takes comfort in her presence, closes his eyes and slides off the bed to kneel for the second time tonight.  
  
  
Bossuet goes first, though Courfeyrac isn't certain how he knows that, with his eyes tight shut and tiny sparks bursting into brightness in the dark space behind his eyelids. His thick prick nudges gently at Courfeyrac's mouth, and he opens almost on instinct and lets it in, sucks at the head as gently as he can, steadies himself with his hands, lets it rock in and out, the faint taste overwhelming him for an instant, until he recovers himself, sucks harder, deeper, squeezes his eyes shut harder. Then he feels the tiny movement of air against him, and a different prick- longer, narrower takes its turn with his mouth, and even without sight he knows how close they stand, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder like always, brothers in arms, as they take turns. His jaw aches in earnest now, used beyond capacity but he cannot bring himself to protest, cannot imagine losing this. For a while his world narrows until there is nothing but this, first Joly, then Bossuet, and then in a moment that makes him blush helplessly, they push together at the yielding hollow of his mouth, too big to be taken together he knows, but for a moment he is shaken with the desire to try, instead worships them both as false idols of the moment with tongue, lips and all the reverence he can bring to bear.  
  
  
There are fingers that curve round his face, and then (he thinks Bossuet) one of them traces across his mouth, soothes his lips with a thumb, the contrast striking and shocking, and as though it traces fire down his spine, his prick leaps helplessly and he wonders with a sudden helpless fear if he will come like this untouched, and though he does not allow shame to intrude on him in these moments that is perhaps a step too far. He is saved by a softer presence, scented and rustling in a scanty chemise who folds her fingers round his prick inside his trousers and strokes, her fingers curling at his neck, tapping as though to soothe with her presence. In the end it is still not he who comes first, but Joly and Bossuet, within seconds of each other, matched in this as they are matched in all things. Joly comes within his mouth, and Bossuet over his other hand as he waits his turn, and Courfeyrac follows too soon after, tumbles into darkness, impossibly, his prick aching as it tries once again to come.   
  
  
Afterwards, Joly brings him water, and Bossuet brings him his shirt, abashed fingers brushing his face as though he feared he had been too rough. He lingers, unsure of whether to stay. In the end despite their welcome and their warmth, he takes his leave, preferring to walk through dark streets back to his own bed (he hopes Marius has shifted by now.) As he passes the Cafe Musain, a piece of dark shadow resolves itself into Jehan, whose watchful face and alert stance soften when he sees him, as though he reads on Courfeyrac's face that all is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Con-crit/feedback much appreciated.


End file.
